


Hit 'Em With The Pow

by rockinrye



Category: Glee
Genre: Gen, super hero
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-08-15
Updated: 2011-09-05
Packaged: 2017-10-22 15:31:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/239563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rockinrye/pseuds/rockinrye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mike Chang is living a normal life until he wakes up one day to find he's a motherfucking super hero. Awesome. Sort of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

His life is nothing like he expected it to be, but it’s still kind of awesome. He lives with Mercedes and Santana in LeDroit Park. Mercedes can get to Howard’s campus in about ten minutes on foot and the bus he takes when Santana’s schedule conflicts with his is on the corner of their block and gets him to Georgetown in about a half hour.

He thought it would be weird living with the two of them but it’s not. There’s a never-ending supply of Arizona’s in the fridge (Mucho Mango is his favorite) and there’s always music he can dance to coming from someone’s dock. He doesn’t mind when either of their voices fill the house and he sort of loves it when they decide to sing something together.

They don’t fight much. Santana’s definitely mellowed out over the last three years and she only really freaks when someone gets water on the bathroom floor or eats one of her Pop-Tarts. (That’s usually him but he sort of can’t resist the strawberry ones with sprinkles.) Mercedes isn’t home much but she’s neat and friendly when she is.

She’s really involved at her school. She’s in the gospel choir and some sorority that’s almost 100 years old that’s she’s super proud to be apart of. He’s pretty sure it’s nothing like the one Tina’s in. She has to wear a crisp black skirt suit to their meetings and she carries a bag with their letters on it wherever she goes. She’s also an on-air personality for their school’s radio station. He really likes this social butterfly version of Mercedes. School’s been good to her.

Santana’s home more often, but that’s only because she hates studying in the library so she does it in her room or on their living room floor. She’s a lot more open with her intelligence here. She hasn’t made mention of Lima Heights Adjacent since that party they went to during their freshman year where she actually went Lima Heights on someone.

When she’s almost gone crazy from reading too much they always play whatever game is in the nearest console after she initiates a battle with, “C’mon Han. Let me kick your ass.”

He sort of loves his life in DC. There’s a lot of stuff to do and see and a lot of it is free. The happy hours are awesome and there are plenty of pretty girls.

He’s not with Tina anymore but that stopped hurting after the first year. They’re friends now anyway and he talks to her (and sometimes Britt) from their place in California on Skype.

*

“Jet Li,” Santana calls from the bathroom. He doesn’t even roll his eyes because this one’s recycled and after two years of sharing a house with her it’s pretty hard to consider anything she says offensive.

“Sup, Selena?” He says back, smirking and leaning his head in. She’s got a mascara wand lapping at her eyelashes and he can’t help but chuckle at the way girl’s mouths always hang open a little when they put stuff on their eyes.

“I’m supposed to pick up Puck but the smoking hot Persian chick in my Neurodevelopment class wants to go out,” she says. She and Britt aren’t together, but he definitely has to use earplugs whenever she visits, which – whatever, he’s not asking any questions. “That’s pretty much code for ‘Please, give me orgasms.’ So.”

“You want me to get him?” She smiles brightly at him in the mirror, combing a hand through her hair before turning to him and cocking her head to the side. That always works on him. “Yeah, sure.”

“The Green Goblin is all gassed up. Don’t wait up,” she says, grabbing her toothbrush case out of the medicine cabinet. He just laughs a little under his breath and follows her to her room to get the keys to her car.

*

“Sup Bro?” Puck says, clapping his head into Mike’s palm and tugging him into a hug. They break apart and imitate the Will/Jazz handshake with a strong _pshhh_ before Mike nods his head toward Santana’s dark green Lexus RX.

Puck’s in town to open up for the opening act at the Adele concert at the 9:30 Club a few blocks away from their place next Friday but he’s staying with them for two weeks just because. He tosses his guitar and big black dusty duffle into Santana’s trunk before sliding into the car.

They stop at Five Guys and attack double-patty’d bacon cheeseburgers and a large fry, which is really just a giant brown paper bag filled to the brim with fresh-cut seasoned potatoes. It’s the best meal he’s had in weeks and the worst for him. He’s been busy keeping up with his physics classes and dancing. He won’t stop dancing, even if his parents sort of really want him to. He’s got a routine and focus. He’s interested in physics mostly to get the degree. It’d be cool to have something to do with the next awesome rollercoaster at Cedar Point, but he’s honestly just studying so he has something to fall back on and a ceremony for his parents to attend.

When they get home, Mercedes is there with her boyfriend Eric, a tall guy with skin the color of Jiffy and a line-up that’s always perfect. He wears suits every single day but drinks like a fish when they party and gives Mike a run for his money on MJ Experience. He’s a political science major and he’s pretty cool and totally in love with Mercedes.

His suit jacket is hanging over a chair and he and Mercedes are sitting on the couch. He stands up immediately to greet both of them and Mercedes is up a moment later to cuff Puck in the back of the head and tug the hairs of his Mohawk before she hugs him. After introductions are taken care of and Puck’s dumped his duffle in Santana’s room they gather around a bottle of 1800.

Santana comes through the door grumbling when they’re all about four shots in, laughing, passing around a bag of Doritos and arguing over reality shows.

“She was fucking terrible,” she says to no one in particular before grabbing the bottle off the table and filling the purple shot glass next to it. “I only spend the night when morning sex is promising.”

“Hello to you too, Lo,” Puck says, smacking her ass. She rolls her eyes and slaps on the side of the head before pressing a kiss to his temple.

“’Fuck are you losers doing?”

“Mike thinks Jersey Shore is better than Real Housewives.”

“It is,” he insists, his eyebrows lifting to get a cosign from Santana.

“The Hun is right,” she says, squeezing into the space between him and Puck. It isn’t much of a space at all so one thigh is draped over each of their laps; neither of them mind and he’s feeling the effects of tequila anyway.

*

They’re basically super fucked up. No one can stop laughing and he’s not sure at all how they ended up on the National Mall walking down the creepiest dark path to the Lincoln Memorial. The Reflecting Pool is on their left but there’s no light because they’ve drained all the water out to refill it.

Santana’s on his back and Puck’s on his right, strumming a guitar and singing some ridiculous song about “endless legs.” He’s not even going to ask though he’s pretty sure who it’s about. Mercedes and Eric are back at the house, passed out.

He’s doing the robot and Santana’s laughing in his ear. He wants to reference that the walk they’re taking looks like that scene in Deathly Hallows 2 when they apparated straight into Hogsmeade but Santana’s slapped the back of his head enough times tonight. It’s a little eerie out here. Super dark and quiet save for Puck who is just strumming light chords now.

He can’t even pretend he isn’t a little glad when they get out of the long stretch and see the light of the Lincoln Memorial.

*

One minute they’re laughing and trading sips from Puck’s flask, the light of the moon and the one above Lincoln hanging over them on the steps, Santana curled into his side. The next he’s sprawled on his bedroom floor with the worst headache he’s ever had. It feels like his temple is going to burst open any minute.

He presses a palm to his eye and stands up to make his way to the bathroom to pop some ibuprofen. He nearly screams when looks in the mirror because there’s … _two of him_.

He blinks once. Still two Mike Changs.

He blinks again and there’s only one.

The air shifts and whisks past his bare back and when he looks toward the door he almost swears he sees himself looking over his shoulder.

No more tequila.


	2. Chapter 2

“You look like shit,” Santana says, smirking over the rim of a cup of coffee. Mercedes nods her head smiling at him like she feels bad for whatever he looks like. He’s not even bothering with any more mirrors. He’s still freaked out from that … whatever it was he saw earlier. “Here,” Santana says, pointing at his coffee cup. Steam is wafting from the top and it’s lighter than the black coffee in Santana’s cup. He smiles because she’s sort of like evil and sweet at the same time.

“What did we do last night?” Mike asks, sliding onto a stool near the counter. He takes a long sip and feels himself mellow out a little. It’s crazy how dependent all of them have become on coffee.

“I only remember bad sex,” Santana says, breaking a Pop-Tart and frowning. “Like, really bad. Pretty sure I gave myself the orgasm I had.”

Mercedes makes a noise before spooning cereal into her mouth. Her eyebrows shooting up before she breaks out into full on laughter. “You’re ridiculous,” she says.

“I’m serious though,” Santana says taking a seat at the small kitchen table. Mike just watches the two of them, talking without saying words in that little eyebrow speak they do. He likes not knowing what it means so he doesn’t try to decipher it.

“I know we went to the Lincoln Monument,” he says after a moment. It’s really all he can remember, which sucks because he’s pretty sure he’s missing something.

“You did?” Mercedes says.

“If he says so.” Santana shrugs.

“I mean, that’s all I remember,” he amends sliding off the stool to move to the refrigerator. He grabs two eggs, the bag of shredded cheddar and the milk.

Scrambles always make him feel better after nights with Puck and Santana. They don’t help him remember anything but they do wonders for the throb in his head and the ache in his stomach. It’s sort of his power food.

“I’d love to waste my potential on recalling drunken nights with you, Jackie,” Santana says, clapping his shoulder and dropping her mug into the sink, “But I have some reading to do and about zero give-a-fucks left.”

“You’re really endearing,” he says, whisking the mixture of egg, milk, cheese and pepper.

“I know, babe.” She presses a kiss to his temple and disappears down the hall. Puck groans minutes later and Mike and Mercedes share a look before laughing. He’s positive she slapped him or something.

“You alright, Mike?”

“I think so. Head is just killing me and I was like seeing things this morning.” He can practically feel her frown. He can feel most of her facial expressions, actually. He chuckles a little to play it off because it’s kind of crazy to think he saw himself standing next to himself in a mirror.

“Seeing things?”

“It’s nothing. I think I just had like double vision from all those double shots.”

“Yeah? I need to stop drinking with y’all.”

“You love it,” he says because she does. They’ve never had a bad time. Well, not a horrible one at least. They have a lot of stories though. Memories.

She laughs, “Yeah, I guess I do.” Another set of lips are on his forehead when his eggs hit the pan. “I’ve got practice. I’ll see you later?”

“Yeah. I’m going to the Spy Museum with Puck later but we should be back by the time you’re done.”

“Alright, love ya,” she says before heading for her room. Yeah, living with two chicks means he get a lot of love. He definitely doesn’t mind.

“Going back to sleep,” he says, peaking into Santana’s room once he’s finished eating. She’s sitting on a sleeping Puck’s back in a tee and underwear tugging on his Mohawk.

“Maybe you’ll wake up on the not-ugly side this time,” she teases. A lot of love alright.

*

He sleeps a lot longer than he expected to and wakes up to a not-so-weighty dip in his bed that he’s more than familiar with. Santana’s rules on personal space seem only to apply to _her_ personal space.

“Liu Kang,” Santana says, clapping his shoulder and rolling onto her back. “While I appreciate any time I don’t have to spend looking at your face – you didn’t wake up on the good side this time either – Puck and I actually miss you. Mostly because I’m tired of kicking his ass on every game we own. I need some real competition.”

There’s a grunt before he turns to the other side.

“Chang, I let you sleep for six hours. There’s not much more Puck I can take,” she adds, leaning over him to get a look at his face.

“You’re obnoxious, you know that right?”

“It’s part of my charm. Just get up.”

“Gimme ten minutes.”

“Okay. Your headache gone?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Buck up.”

*

It takes an extra ten minutes for Mike to feel ready to get up. He pushes up on his palms, feels something (himself) drop and hears a crack before scrambling off the bed, which is a lot closer to the floor than it was before. He runs a frantic hand over his face and narrows his eyes at the mess in front of him.

“Dude, did you, like, _break that_?” Puck asks, peeking in from the hall.

All he can manage is an eyebrow raise and a groan of “fuck.”

Not the best day.

*

“How did you even do that?” Puck asks, sliding onto the stool opposite him and next to Mercedes. His headache is gone. The only discomfort he really has is the location’s abuse of a/c.

“I don’t know,” he says, looking down at his hands again. His box spring cracked and leveled the metal frame beneath it. He’s chalking it up to faulty IKEA furniture, but Puck is still amused by it. He’d rather not think about the bed he has to replace and he’s glad when the waitress, a short girl with tan skin, curly hair and a nice rack that’s barely contained by her Hooters tee, approaches the table.

Puck’s definitely not worried about him anymore. Neither is Santana though she’s doing a much better job at not gaping. He just shoots a look across the table to Mercedes who shakes her head and looks back at her menu.

“Dude, she’s totally not gay,” Puck says to Santana when the waitress walks away to get their drinks (Sprite for Mike and a round of Long Islands for the rest of the table).

“When has that ever mattered?” Santana counters. Her face is a cross between amused and cocky. Her eyes are wide with laughter but her smirk is smug. Mike laughs because she’s right. Santana’s universally hot and this definitely wouldn’t be the first (or fourth) time she bagged a chick that didn’t dig chicks. He’s not even counting the ones who cheated on their boyfriends.

He refuses all their attempts to get him drunk because he’s definitely not ready for another hangover. Instead, he sips his second Sprite and watches the ridiculous game of pounce Puck and Santana playing. Mercedes is mortified. She has a class with the waitress.

“You think she’d be down for a threesome?” Puck asks. Mike looks up from his hands (he can’t stop staring at them like they might do or break something else) and shakes his head. He’s not even sure how he fits into this group some days.

“I don’t share,” Santana mutters but she’s looking at Mercedes with a curious expression on her face.

“I don’t know her like that,” Mercedes says, her eyebrows furrowing. “Could the two of you keep it in your pants for once? I don’t need to feel awkward in CapComm every day.”

“You won’t feel awkward. You should be proud to know me,” Puck says.

“There’s no way you’re winning this,” Santana says before flagging the waitress, Imani, down for another round of Long Islands an unnecessary compliment about her legs. Yeah, Mike’s not so sure about the not gay thing.

He spends most of his time with them quietly observing and today is no different. He’s way cold and his joints seem to have tightened up. He covers his left hand with his right to relieve some tension in his knuckles. He lets out a – God, what _was_ that noise? – when he hears the pop and then feels the pain spread over his hand.

“The fuck?” Santana says, looking over at him. He can feel the reddening of his face and he doesn’t want to _look_ at it because he thinks he just broke his own finger. Puck’s mouth is just sort of hanging open. He didn’t even have the decency to move the chicken wing away from his lips and Mercedes mouth is pulled tight but her eyes are wide.

*

“Comparing you to strong Asians was a joke,” Santana says, squeezing his shoulder. “You weren’t supposed to go out and become one. My ass hasn’t grown from any of your J.Lo references and I’ll be damned if I start wearing a sequined bustier.”

“Shut up,” he says looking at it again. It’s just kind of dangling there weakly. It hasn’t stopped throbbing and the flush hasn’t left his skin. He feels sort of like a pussy because fuck if his eyes didn’t sting at the table, but he’ also confused as to how he was strong enough to break his own finger on accident.

He’d probably be fine if that was his only problem except he glances out the window and the eyes that reflect back to him each morning when he’s brushing his teeth are looking back at him.

“Did you see –“ he starts to say but Santana is hovering over her phone with Puck laughing in her ear and then pounding her fist saying something like ‘Tonight’s going to be fucking awesome.’

He can’t really be blamed for fainting.


	3. Chapter 3

It’s totally broken and his doctor looks at him just like all his friend’s did when he tells him how he did it.

“Cracking your knuckle?” He asks in disbelief. Mike groans and rolls his eyes. Yeah, he gets it just as much everyone else, which is, you know, not at all. He basically stops talking from annoyance while Santana squeezes his shoulder. The doctor fits his left ring finger with a splint and buddy taps it to his middle one before sending him on his way and telling him to ice it for at least twenty minutes every hour and take some ibuprofen.

*

“Are you good?” Santana asks, peeking in his door.

“Yeah,” he says, lifting his hand. It’s still throbbing and apparently you can get frostbite from icing things too long so he can’t do that again for an hour. She just shakes her head like she’s not sure what to think of him and comes into his room. She sits next to him on his bed, which is so broken it’s ridiculous, and puts her chin the crook his neck, kisses his cheek.

“You can sleep in my bed tonight,” she says, tapping his leg. This is probably his favorite thing about her, that she can be both awesome and evil. He’s always believed the villain is the hero of his own story and Santana really isn’t that bad. He used to be sure she was the spawn of Satan back in high school, but not so much anymore. “I’m still disappointed that you don’t have an awesome sex story to accompany this fucked up bed.”

“Shut up.”

“Seriously, I hope me and Puck break this chicks bed just so you can feel like a pansy,” she teases before getting up and stretching. He makes a noise because sometimes not humoring her is for the best. “I love you though,” she adds and then she pecks him on the lips, which is rare but normal. “Don’t break anything else.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he smirks, “Love you too.”

*

He finds himself in Mercedes bed with his head on her lap. She’s playing with his hair, muttering about his much-needed haircut and laughing at something on the TV. They have a Skype date with Tina and Brittany in a few minutes and he loves Santana but the less time he has to physically spend in the her bed the better. “Things happen there,” he tells Mercedes when he shows up with a Ziploc bag full of ice and a frown. She welcomes him easily, teases him and says she wants no parts of Santana’s sex life.

“Hey guys,” Tina says, smiling at them from California a few minutes later. Brittany peeks her head in a moment later, head covered in some hat that looks like a cupcake or an ice cream cone. He can’t really tell. He lifts his head to make a popping noise with his mouth as he waves and they both giggle.

They spend a large amount of time recapping what’s going on with Tina and Brittany in California. Brittany’s dancing everywhere she can, auditioning like crazy but she hasn’t really found anything and Tina is still trying to do a double major to satisfy her own interests and those of her parents. He definitely understands and tells her things will work out when she starts looking sad.

It’s all fun until the girls stop talking and ask him what he’s been up to. Mercedes makes a noise, pets at his hair and shakes her head with a grin into the camera. He groans because this really sucks.

“He broke his finger,” she supplies when he doesn’t make any motion to talk. He side-eyes her and watches as both Tina and Brittany frown sadly at him.

“It’s not that big of a deal,” he says dismissively.

“Uh, yeah it is,” Mercedes says. “You broke your own finger … and your bed.”

He hates that look she gives him. The one that basically says I think you’re an idiot. He just shakes his head.

“Were you having sex?” Brittany asks. Mercedes and Tina snort but the curious expression on Brittany’s face never falters.

“No.”

“Oh. You should’ve been having sex. Me and Santana broke a chair that way before.”

“No one wants to hear about that,” Mercedes and Tina say at the same time with matching expressions. Mike laughs. They make him explain how everything happened, but it hasn’t started making sense and it’s not about to.

“Wow,” Brittany says, scratching at her hairline. “It’s like you have super strength or something.”

“Right,” he says. He’s not usually short with her, she’s been his friend for a long time, but he’s just so annoyed and it’s starting to hurt again.

“No really. It’s like this story I read when I was a kid about this guy who got super strength out of nowhere and broke things on accident,” her brows furrow, “Well he didn’t break like himself. That’s different.”

Mercedes changes the subject after that and he’s grateful.

*

They talk for hours. Well, Mercedes, Tina and Brittany talk, he laughs and gets Mercedes to let him hook his Wii up in her room and plays some solo Mario Kart while they gossip. He overhears three Brittany and Santana sex stories that he wishes he could erase from memory.

He leaves Mercedes room at around midnight. She’s still cackling on Skype, telling a story about Eric. He kisses her cheek and she pauses her laughter to smile at him, tell him to sleep well and jokes about him staying on top of the covers. He rolls his eyes but laughs all the same and stops in the kitchen to steal one of Santana’s Pop Tarts before he gets in the bed.

*

He’s at the Lincoln Memorial, Puck’s hand on his shoulder while he mumbles something like “Dude, what _is_ that?”

He has no idea what it is but it seems to be getting closer and closer.

Santana’s sitting on the steps, strumming something that sounds only a shade south of horrible on Puck’s guitar and singing, off-key.

It swallows him. Or, well, he doesn’t think it’s possible to be swallowed, but that’s what it _feels_ like. He feels warm all over and he’s alone, suddenly, alone. Puck’s hand is gone. Santana’s voice isn’t swimming in his ears. There’s only silence and light, bright light.

A wisp of something bursts from his chest. It doesn’t hurt. It’s almost ghost-like, gliding out, spinning and spinning until it materializes, becomes solid and –

It has his face and his hands. He knows they’re his hands because they’re gripping his bicep and it feels too familiar and totally weird and he wants to scream or run or something but he can’t move and he, or it, whatever this thing that looks like him is staring at him with a perplexed expression.

His head starts throbbing then. It feels like something is trying to tear out of his temple but he faints before that happens.

*

He wakes up covered in a thick sheen of sweat, temples on fire. He wants to scream but no sound comes out and he’s leaning on his left hand, which still hurts.

He doesn’t know what the fuck just happened because that wasn’t a dream. It felt real. It still feels real and he’s stuck between being terrified and curious.  



End file.
